


It’s phrased as a question, which is strange

by quietkerfluffle (giraffeminion)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Honest-to-god candles, Hospital implied, Lestrade courage, M/M, Mycroft is an Adult (mostly), Mystrade Monday, Organized and cross-referenced binders hell ya, Sherlock is stubborn but so is Greg, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:34:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26335750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giraffeminion/pseuds/quietkerfluffle
Summary: Greg assumes that all Holmeses must balk at admitting they’re wrong. But you know what they say about assumptions…ORTwo times Mycroft makes a mistake, and two times he doesn’t.Mystrade Monday prompt: “I made a mistake.”
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Lestrade
Comments: 13
Kudos: 96





	It’s phrased as a question, which is strange

Greg knows how bloody difficult it is for Sherlock to admit when he’s wrong. Actually, scratch that. For the (very) few times Sherlock has been wrong, Greg has never heard him admit it.

Sherlock never lets Greg get away with it, that’s for sure. Greg's lost count of the number of times he’s had to grit his teeth and list his screw-ups in order to get Sherlock to share his “deductions.” Keeps him humble, that one.

He’ll also readily admit that he expected Mycroft to be no different. The man plays for even higher stakes, is significantly less impulsive than Sherlock, and has the entire British government--and more--as his sources.

\---

The first time, Mycroft is standing next to him at the foot of Sherlock’s bed, watching the machine breathe for him, a shallow mechanical huff and a hiss. Greg is trying not to look at the deep bruising on his face or his fingers twitching, even in sleep. He glances to his left at the profile of the mysterious Mycroft Holmes, looking for the life of him like an ordinary, tired older brother.

“I made a mistake,” he says, quietly enough that Greg almost doesn’t catch it, but turns and walks away before Greg could offer any of the usually protestations-- _not your fault, nothing you could’ve done, he’ll be okay_ \--which is probably for the best because Greg doesn’t actually know any of those things.

\---

The second time, Greg is facing him down, mad as hell. He doesn’t remember standing up or planting his fists quite so forcefully on the desk, and he distinctly doesn’t remember signing off on any of the paperwork that Mycroft has calmly recited to him. He says as much, but instead of denying it, Mycroft only nods, which should have made him even madder but instead deflates him.

Of course, he wasn’t Mycroft then, only Mr. Holmes, or “Beg your pardon, _sir_ ,” as Greg had spat across his desk furiously.

Slumped in his chair, Greg figures he should have seen it coming. He still didn’t understand quite what it was Mycroft did, but from Sherlock’s dark mutterings and John’s distrustful side eyes he knows: Mycroft Holmes is a Big Deal, and most importantly, he gets what he wants. He sighs and starts pulling together his case file, rearranging the pull tabs and clipping them back into the three-ring binder.

“I should’ve known,” he says to the binder, refusing to look up. “Sherlock said as much.” Running his hand wistfully down the spine, he offers it up. “Ordered chronologically but cross-referenced by location and person-of-interest.” When he finally looks up, and he’s startled to see that Mycroft looks almost...surprised. But, he accepts the binder and stands up crisply. How does one stand up crisply? Greg wasn’t sure, but he’d just witnessed it.

“Thank you,” he says, but stops in the door, turns round. “I may have underestimated you, Detective Inspector. I apologize.”

The door clicks shut before Greg could do more than gape at him.

\---

Mr. Mycroft Holmes gets what he wants, and for the most part, Greg doesn’t mind giving it to him. He definitely doesn’t get a quiet thrill from hearing his voice over the phone (firm, authoritative, sometimes devastatingly ~~attractive~~ cutting). It’s just nice to be appreciated, is all. He does his best to look after Sherlock, relays information as needed, and steps into the unmarked black cars when ~~instructed~~ requested. This time, the car takes him to a quiet corner in London that he’s surprisingly unfamiliar with. He steps out and under the awning. Mycroft (Greg grants himself that familiarity in his head) hadn’t specified what these summons were about, but he rarely does. A uniformed person opens the door for him with a slight incline of their head and Greg feels suddenly, inexplicably underdressed.

The room he enters into doesn’t help matters, but he’s ushered to a small booth in the back before he really has a chance to take in his surroundings. It’s a restaurant, low lighting and dark wood and honest-to-god candles. He blinks and Mycroft is there, in the booth, looking up with a surprisingly vulnerable expression.

“Would you care to,” he hesitates minutely, “have a seat?” It’s phrased as a question, which is strange, since Greg is more used to, “Have a seat.”

He does, but his bewilderment must show on his face because a faint frown creases Mycroft’s brow. He almost looks like he’s considering bolting, which a distant part of Greg’s brain marvels at, because he’s never seen Mycroft run anywhere, let alone be afraid of anything or anyone.

“Is everything alright, Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft straightens at that, like a switch flips him back to hyper-competent mode. “Quite,” he says, “and Mycroft, please. I have taken the liberty of ordering for us when I arrived.”

Mycroft. Alright then. He assures Greg that there is nothing eminently on fire, that Sherlock is in good health (or as much as can be expected) and that this is not, in fact, a work call. But he doesn’t elaborate past that.

“Is,” Greg is forced to ask, “there something in particular you wanted to see me about, Mycroft?” The name curls and rolls deliciously off his tongue.

The lighting is just bright enough for Greg to swear that Mycroft Holmes is blushing. Blushing. Not work. Mood lighting, honest-to-god candles...wait.

“Is this a date?” he blurts, and Mycroft winces.

“This was a mistake,” he starts, tries to stand, but Greg grabs his wrist, grabs that Lestrade courage.

“...because I would like it to be,” Greg says.

\---

With everyone’s attention on the band, they finally have a moment of peace.

“So,” Greg grins, right hand reaching up to cup Mycroft’s cheek, “was this a mistake?”

Mycroft lifts Greg’s other hand to his mouth, kissing the new gold band on his ring finger.

“Never.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the Mystrade Monday prompters! Changed up the 5+1 format in order to fit the word count, story, whims of Mycroft etc. You grab that Lestrade Courage, Greg!


End file.
